The Past Is Dead
by Shaye1106
Summary: "Every man I've ever loved has died." She fears she will never recover; she fears that this fact will always haunt her life. Today is no exception.


_**This fic is dedicated to the lovely Nanuk, who requested Owen getting injured. Thank you for being so patient with me! This is definitely angst, but there is a sweet ending. This is set as an alternate 11x22/23. TW: Stabbing.**_

She's been here before.

 _Every man I've ever loved has died._

This isn't supposed to be happening.

"Stab wound, possibly to the aorta, knife still in place," the new EMT, Chris, shouts as the doors of the ambulance open to the trauma bay.

"Alright," April says, "We're going to need hands. Wilson, page cardio, general, and see if you can get Hunt, too. We need all hands on deck."

As Wilson turns around, running inside the sliding doors, Chris continues. "White male. Early forties." He helps to move the gurney to the ground, and he hears April gasp.

"It's Owen." She lets out a breath, gathering her composure. "Page Shepherd," she says to her newest intern. "Alright, let's get him into trauma one, prep an OR for surgery. You three," she motions to a few residents, "help me with the gurney." She leads the way, pushing a fading Owen inside, him unconscious, but his pulse present. Weak, but still present.

They evaluate the wound and take his vitals within minutes before moving him up to the OR. In transit, Amelia catches up with them. "Hey, neuro consult?" She asks before looking down at the patient in question. And she stops. She just stops. Frozen in place, frozen in time. Because it's him. It's her husband. It's her _Owen_.

"We're taking him to OR 3," April yells, turning quickly to face Amelia before the elevator opens. "We'll do everything we can."

Amelia hears the words, but they don't mean anything. They're just sounds, sounds so unconnected from meaning she can't even begin to decipher them. She slides down against the wall, heart beating too fast, palms too sweaty, head too fuzzy. She can't think. She can't breathe. She can't live without him.

So she waits. She sees people come and go. She sees Riggs running to the elevator. She sees Meredith trailing slightly after. But it's all a blur. It's the melding of time-in fear, in agony, in remorse-and she has no hope of escaping the endless vortex that is now her life.

* * *

She runs. She has always been a runner. Her and Derek both. She has always known that running created more problems than it solved, but it was her way. A way to escape the pain, the knowledge, the reality before it became too late-before she was irrevocably hurt and damaged beyond repair. She always thought it was better to run and avoid the inevitability of getting hurt, than to stay along for the ride. To wait it out. Now she knows how wrong she was. It is better to have loved than to be lonely. It is better to take love at its fullest-the pain, the joy, the desire, the anger-than to have the superficial. Because without the night, the sun would not shine so brightly.

Five hours. It's been five hours and no one has come to find her. She shakes her head, thinking about how she doesn't even know what the trauma is. All she had seen was his face. She can't lose him. She stares blankly at the elevator doors, just a few steps ahead, staring, just staring. She thinks there are tears running down her face, but she can't be sure. She's just so _numb_.

Some time later, April taps on Amelia's shoulder, slowly pulling her out of her trance. She's kneeling, eye level with Amelia, when she says, "He's going to be alright."

And that is when she breaks. She feels her chest trembling violently, her mouth turning up, quivering. The tears flow freely now, traveling easily down her cheeks and onto her shoulders. April leans forward, wrapping Amelia in a tight hug. They will wait this out together.

It's about ten minutes later when Amelia's cries turn to sniffles and her body slumps back against the wall, disentangling her arms from April's waist.

"He's okay," April says, voice soft and tender. "He's okay. Do you want to see him now?" Amelia nods, not trusting her voice at the moment. April stands slowly, offering Amelia her hand. Once she stands up and wipes her eyes, she grabs April's hand in a tight squeeze and they walk to the elevator. "EMTs were called to the scene. It was downtown. Stab wound to the aorta."

Amelia's breath catches. "That's usually fatal."

"But he's alright. Remember, he's alright. We got to him in time. Had only the best working on him." She waits for Amelia to nod. Once she knows Amelia is a bit calmer, she continues. "He's going to be in recovery in the hospital for another couple weeks. After that, he'll need to rest for a while. He shouldn't do anything too strenuous."

"But he's going to be okay?" Amelia's voice wavers, her lower lip trembling.

"He's going to be okay," April affirms as they step off the elevator.

When they reach his room, April pats her on the back and whispers something about giving her some time alone. Amelia closes her eyes, breathing in and out. After a moment of silence, she opens her eyes and walks into the room, pulling the plastic chair, once against the wall, next to his bed. Her shaking hands take his as she sits down, and she gently rubs her thumbs over his pale knuckles. She shivers, missing the warmth that usually radiates from his body. It's another reminder that this is not a normal day-there is no version of this where it is normal.

She sits like this for the next few hours, breathing in and out until the counting of her breaths is routine. Doctors come and go, but her hands never move from her grip on his. Her gaze remains trained on his sleeping form, silently willing him to wake up and wake up soon.

Her eyes are drooping, dry and red, by the time she feels him stir. She looks at the clock. 9:56 PM. She got the page at 6:34 this morning. She holds her breath as she squeezes his hands tighter in hers.

His eyes flutter open as his face pinches in residual pain. He relaxes slightly when he feels the familiar groove of her hands, gets a whiff of the lilac perfume she favors. He turns his head, slowly, carefully. "How bad?"

She exhales, slumping closer to his body, holding the tears at bay. She runs through the diagnosis, the surgery, the recovery period, and she sees his eyes grow a little duller with each fact. "But you're alive." She moves to sit next to him on the bed, being mindful of his injuries. "You're alive." She cups her hand over his cheek, catching a few of his tears in the process.

"I am," he says, voice raspy.

"I don't know what I would've done if you weren't okay," she finally whispers. "I need you in my life. I _want_ you in my life. I shouldn't have been pushing you away and fighting with you and-"

"-It's okay," he says. He slowly lets out a breath, wincing slightly in pain.

"Let me get you some meds. I'll page Kepner."

"Let me say this first." His eyes meet hers before he speaks, the blues melting into each other as if they hadn't spent the last few months barely making eye contact. "We'll talk more about this later. I know we're not fixed yet. But I do love you. Always remember that. Even when we're fighting, I still love you."

She tears up once more and cups her other hand around his cheek, holding his face in both her palms. "I love you, too. So much." She places a whisper of a kiss on his tender lips. Pulling back, she says, "And I am sorry, for all the pain I've caused you." She removes her hands and settles back down next to him, giving him some space. "I got scared. You were so excited about a baby and I thought I was too, but then the test came back and instead of sadness, I was relieved," she says quickly, words running into one another. "And I felt guilty for not feeling the same way you did and then I felt guilty about moving on from my son and then I was embarrassed to come find you after running for so long, and," she pauses, collecting her thoughts. He sees her brows furrowing in frustration as she tries to organize the thoughts she so rarely filters. Finally, she calms and looks him in the eyes. "I run. I'm a runner. Always have been. I leave people before they leave me." She nods to herself, almost as if encouraging herself to continue with her speech. "But I want that to change. I want to have been a runner, past tense, not present. Because I can't lose you. These past few months I haven't been myself. I never thought you needed another person around to be yourself, but you do. _I_ do. I can't do this without you. I am so, so sorry for everything I've done. I know this doesn't fix anything, but I want to fight for us."

He smiles, his lips curling up ever so gently. "I've been fighting since the start." He chuckles, the sound rough and labored. "And I'm not about to stop now." She leans over his tender body, wrapping him in a barely-there hug.

They are not a plane crash because he is not his past.

They are not a bad omen because she is not her past.

They are their presents. They are their futures. They are Owen and Amelia, best friends and forever lovers.

This isn't the end. He is not dead; they are not done. It's their new beginning.

 _ **Thanks for reading! Please let me know your thoughts-they feed my writing soul :)**_


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